Nowhere but Home A Novel

15




Garrison Brothers bourbon and branch



I slam the hatch of my car down and walk to the driver’s-side door. I unlock the door and sit behind the wheel, clutching the piece of paper Shawn gave me as I left the kitchen. I start the car and blast the air-conditioning. I sit there letting the coldness hit my face. The car idles and strains through the blasting air-conditioning. My hands are clamped tight around the steering wheel. I watch the guards pace. Pace. I can’t think. I can’t form a thought. I feel as though I’m holding back a flood with the mantra “Don’t let one drop spill or it’ll all go.” I’m taking shallower and shallower breaths, because even the idea of breathing threatens the dam. I am the gasp of air you take before you go underwater. The guard paces. The car yearns and sputters some more. My hands are still clamped down tight around the steering wheel.

The guards’ supper was somber, but everyone needed it. We passed food and were quiet. But we were quiet together. We said grace and even laughed once about Hudson wanting to put biscuits with his brisket. We didn’t talk about why we were gathered. We just let the food warm us. Comfort us. Join us.

I cleaned the kitchen with the Dent boys after they’d eaten their supper. We were almost done cleaning when I heard the key card click and Shawn walked back through the kitchen. He was holding the tray with the convict’s plate of food. He set the tray down.

“You did good, Queenie,” Shawn said as he watched me eye the tray.

“He didn’t like the dark meat,” I said, pulling the tray over. Shawn didn’t look at the tray.

“Why don’t you go on home. The Dent boys’ll do this last bit,” Shawn said as he motioned for the Dent boys to clear this tray stat. I grabbed the tray and placed each one of my arms around it, protecting it.

“No,” I said, quiet but dangerous.

“All right now,” Shawn said, used to dealing with crazy.

I remember breathing. And refocusing on the tray. On what was left. I remember not wanting to touch anything. I restrained my own hands in an attempt to control myself. In an attempt to control anything. Shawn just looked drained.

“I don’t mean to be troublesome. I just want to see. Just give me a minute,” I said, trying to ease up after a hard day. I didn’t need Shawn feeling responsible for me after all he’d been through. But I did need him to let me see what was left. I needed to study the ruins.

“All right,” Shawn said, backing away.

“I’m fine. Thank you, Shawn,” I said.

Shawn nodded and looked over at Jace, who was at his post by the door, then he left the kitchen.

“He sure liked that ranch dressing you put on there,” Cody said, motioning to the empty ramekin. Cody didn’t touch the tray either.

“I know,” I said. I still wonder if I put enough. Did he want more? Should I just put ranch on every tray from now on? Jesus. From now on.

“He ate everything,” I said, finally touching the plate.

“The guilty ones do,” Harlan said under his breath.

“The guilty ones do,” I repeat now as I am in my car just thirty minutes later. Who had I just fed? It’d be easy to find out. All I would have to do is ask or turn on the news. I don’t want to know. I can’t know. I can’t set this precedent. It’ll infect the cooking. I know it. I let my head fall, my forehead touching down on the steering wheel. I breathe. “The guilty ones do,” I repeat again, my voice a rasp.

I open the piece of paper.



Next Tuesday

Inmate #HB823356:

Tamales, ensalada de noche buena, cabrito served with rice and beans, orange soda, churros, and a pack of Starburst



I read and reread Shawn’s scrawled writing. Whether I like it or not, I begin to think about the person (man? woman? murderer? innocent?) behind this order. I know that this is a traditional Mexican Christmas dinner. The tamales and the ensalada de noche buena give that away. I’ve never cooked goat (cabrito) before: I’ll have to tinker with that this week. But what dawns on me as I stare at that crumpled piece of paper is that I have to ask Shawn a question about this person. One question and I’ll be off and running. I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial the direct line to the guards’ station just inside.

“Death House.” It’s LaRue.

“Hey there, LaRue, this is Queenie Wake.”

“Oh, hiya, what can I do for you, Queenie?”

“Is Shawn still around?” My hands smooth and crumple the tiny sheet of paper.

“Yes, ma’am, he’s right here.” LaRue puts me on hold. The air-conditioning blares as I wait. The dusky evening begins to darken further.

“Queenie? Everything okay?” Shawn asks.

“Oh absolutely. I just . . . I had a question about next Tuesday’s order?” I smooth the paper out once more.

“Sure, go ahead,” Shawn says.

“I need you to ask this . . .” I trail off.

Shawn jumps in, “Gentleman.”

“I need you to ask this gentleman where his grandmother is from.”

“You want me to ask him where his grandmother is from?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do I get to know why?”

“He ordered tamales. They’re one of the most regionally specific foods out there. The thickness of the masa, the filling, roja, verde . . . I just hope it’s not Oaxaca, I have no idea where I’ll get a banana leaf th—”

“All right. All right. I get it,” Shawn says.

“I don’t want to make the wrong kind,” I say.

“I’ll let you know,” Shawn says. We say our good-byes and I beep my cell phone off and just sit there. The darkness has officially fallen as I watch the guards pace back and forth on the prison’s walls. The blinding floodlights focus and search, focus and search.

I’m jolted out of my purgatory of reverie by someone knocking on my window. I whip my head up, numb and confused. I gather myself just enough and roll down the window; the humidity streams in.

“Hudson, right?” I ask, my mind everywhere and nowhere. I tuck the piece of paper in my pocket, realizing too late that to do so makes me squirm and wriggle in my seat. I shove it down deep and focus.

“You need a drink,” Hudson says, his hand now resting on my car door.

“I need to—”

“Follow me,” he says, tapping my car twice and walking to his car a few parking spaces down.

“I appreciate th—,” I start, but he’s already getting into his car, the engine revving to life. “I could use a drink,” I say to myself, watching as he pulls out of his parking space. I quickly pull out my cell phone and text Merry Carole so she won’t worry.

“Today went fine. Need a drink. Stopping for one with Professor California.” I send the text and back out of my parking space. My phone buzzes as I’m just about to put the car in drive.

“You okay?”

I text back, “I’m good. We’ll talk in the morning. Night-night.”

Hudson drives past guard towers and razor wire and out of Lot B. Just as I’m about to follow my phone buzzes again.

“What will North Star do with two town whores? It’ll be an embarrassment of riches. Be careful. Call if you need a ride.”

I text back, “Will do. Xoxo.”

I follow Hudson down the street that takes us away from the prison. Takes us away from today. I stare at his red taillights as my mind continues its vigilance with the dams, walls, and panic rooms it’s built in the last few hours. Growing uncomfortable with the silence, I turn on the radio and follow Hudson as we wind through the hills just outside Shine to somewhere only he knows. With so much thought about futures and pasts lately, it’s nice to be with someone who is firmly in the here and now.

After twenty or so minutes, we arrive in a town just east of North Star called Evans. Evans is where Hollywood goes to film a “quaint Texas town,” with its main street done up just so and its inhabitants fully aware of how appealing the town is. I only know Evans because North Star beats their football team handily every year. Hell, everyone beats the Evans football team each year quite handily.

Hudson pulls up in front of a picturesque bed and breakfast that’s off the main street. We get out of our cars and walk toward each other in the empty street.

Of course, this is where Hudson is staying for the summer.

“The bar’s just over here,” Hudson says, motioning toward the next block over.

“Oh good,” I say as we begin walking.

“You seem relieved.”

“I thought this might quickly be turning into a whole ‘come on in for a nightcap’ thing.” He smiles back in a way that makes my face flush. We pass warmly lit homes with families sitting on porches sipping lemonade. Doing everything people not from here think small-town life is about. Evans’s townspeople wave and call out to Hudson by name. Everyone knows everyone here—especially the out-of-towners. A lot of the talk is about how hot it is and how Hudson probably wishes he was back in California. He laughs and says the food is better here. Before I know it, we’re in front of the local watering hole. It’s called the the Meat Market. Get it? Even Evans’s bars are endearing.

The bar is better than I would have thought given its name and location. It’s dimly lit—albeit self-conscious. The wood paneling isn’t smoke stained and as old as the railroad, it’s actually tasteful and adds warmth to the room. Hudson and I walk past a pool table and weave through the bar crowd. The crowd is dense and loud. Young. These are college kids home for the summer. A lot of girls in short skirts and cowboy boots sing along to Carrie Underwood as they hang on each other and warn their suitors they’re not above taking a Louisville slugger to both headlights.

I need bourbon.

The crowd moves and sways as Hudson and I inch our way through. It’s a Friday night and this is the only good bar for miles. As the crowd jostles, Hudson takes my hand and leads me on toward the bar. So easy. Just like that and no one is looking, no one is gossiping, and no one is wondering why a man like that would hold the hand of a woman like me. I squeeze his hand tight as we approach the bar.

“What are you having?” Hudson yells over the din.

“Bourbon and branch,” I yell back.

“What?” he asks, leaning in close.

“Bourbon and branch. Garrison Brothers, if they have it,” I say, my breath fluttering his black flips of hair.

“I don’t know what that is, but I’m getting two,” he says, leaning forward on the bar. The chiseled-jaw, cowboy-hatted bartender (who looks like he does some stripping on the side) leans forward and offers Hudson a kind—if not somewhat stereotypical—“Howdy.”

“I’ll see if I can find a table,” I yell, scanning the crowded bar.

“The quieter the better,” Hudson yells over the noise. I nod and edge my way out toward the patio. The outside area is much quieter and a lot more authentic than I expected. A welcome discovery. The patio furniture is easy and relaxed. Swamp coolers and fans make the temperature only a bit wet and muggy. Even with all these amenities, there are very few people out here. It’s perfect. I find a wooden bench in a distant corner, situate the canvas striped pillows, and settle in. The wooden table is scarred by numerous drink rings, knotty flaws, and even a few carved-in initials. Some older women cradle their Lone Stars a few tables over. They crouch over their table in a drunken sway, their hair matted, their spirits dashed. They are the “last call” women. They remind me of Mom. I realize I’m staring. Maybe I’m just brain dead after today. I didn’t sleep at all last night and I can’t imagine tonight will be any better.

Next Tuesday. Oddly, it’s not the traditional Mexican Christmas that gets to me, although this inmate trying to re-create a happier time is tragic. It’s the Starburst. It seems so childlike to want candy. The two older women hoot and holler as a drunken frat boy stumbles by them. I’m actually thankful for the jolt. It’s too early to be depressed about the next meal. I’ve got work to do. I have to experiment with the cabrito, and once I know where his grandmother is from, I can start doing my research on what kind of tamale we’re talking about. Once again, Queenie . . . focus on the food. Focus on the food.

“Here you are,” Hudson says, walking over to the table two drinks in each hand, four total.

“You’re a genius,” I say, reaching for two glasses.

“Cheers,” Hudson says, clinking glasses with me as he settles himself across from me, his wooden chair skittering under his weight.

“What are we toasting?” I ask, downing my drink in one gulp.

“Life,” Hudson says, downing his.

“Ironic,” I say, reaching for my other bourbon.

“Is it?” Hudson says, pulling his other bourbon close.

“I can’t figure out if you’re being purposefully obtuse or just being a dick,” I say, downing my second bourbon.

“Probably a combination,” Hudson says, downing his second.

“Hmm,” I say, eyeing him closely. I scan the patio for a cocktail waitress. I need a beer. We need beer.

“So branch is just water. A bourbon and branch is just bourbon and water,” Hudson says, looking over his shoulder for the cocktail waitress as well.

“It’s water that comes right from the land where the distillery is. It’s not just any water,” I say, finally getting the cocktail waitress’s attention.

“But it is water, just the same,” Hudson says, just as the cocktail waitress approaches.

“What are y’all drinking?” the cocktail waitress says, dropping a couple of Lone Star beer coasters onto our table.

“Apparently, we’re drinking bourbon and fancy water,” Hudson says.

“Bourbon and branch, hon,” the cocktail waitress says, looking to me. We share a “yes, he’s not from here” moment.

“Two Shiner Bocks, please. And water when you get the chance. Just regular water,” I say, my accent thick enough to make up for Hudson’s languid California drawl. The cocktail waitress gives me a quick nod and is off into the bar.

“So,” Hudson says, leaning over the table. The two bourbons are beginning to warm me, making my brain happily hazy.

“So,” I say, guarded. It wouldn’t matter if I saw Hudson coming out of a burning building saving a puppy and a baby, something about him makes me think he’s up to no good. Let’s face it, if I saw him coming out of a burning building with a puppy and a baby, I’d probably think he started the fire.

“We can not talk about it, we can talk about it until the bar closes, or we can get drunk. Your call,” Hudson says, bringing his face ever closer to mine.

“I don’t know what I want, to be honest,” I say. My mind is a minefield. Desperately searching its darkened depths, but terrified of what it might find, it then retreats into the light once more. I think about Merry Carole and Cal and that makes me happy. I think about my day in the kitchen and that makes me happy. I think about Everett and become mournful. I look at Hudson sitting across from me and I feel . . . curious.

“I’m actually an expert on these things, if that matters,” Hudson says.

“An expert on what it feels like to cook for a murderer?” I ask. The cocktail waitress approaches our table, her body visibly reacting as she hears the tail end of my sentence. I smile. She puts our beers and a couple of glasses of water down. I thank her and she leaves. Great.

“You cooked for a triple murderer today, if that counts,” Hudson says, taking a long pull off his beer.

“What?” I can feel the blood drain from my face and I feel like I’m going to be sick.

“You didn’t know?” Hudson asks.

“No,” I say, my voice quiet. Asking Shawn about the next guy’s grandmother and now this? I can feel the light cracking under the closed doors in my mind. I can’t do this. I can’t live like this. If I’m going to do this job, then I need to talk about it. This isn’t working. This can’t be about me shutting myself off even more. I’ve been doing that for too long and this is getting even worse than before.

I continue, “I told myself I didn’t want to know. That if I focused on the food, then whatever they did wouldn’t infect me, if that makes any sense,” I say, my eyes on his. Piercing blue, even in this light.

“It makes total sense, but it’s just not possible,” Hudson says.

“I’m realizing that now,” I say, taking a pull on my beer.

“It takes the term ‘elephant in the room’ to a whole new level,” Hudson says. I can see him thinking and processing. It fascinates me to be around someone when I have no idea what he’s going to say or do next. How his mind works is an absolute mystery to me. He seems different from anyone else I’ve ever known.

“I know it was naive,” I say, starting to peel the label off my beer.

Hudson sits back in his chair, cradling his beer. He is thinking. He looks up at the tin roof of the patio as Patsy Cline wafts through the bar’s speakers. I watch him, searching his face as he starts and stops a thousand sentences.

“It’s interesting though, isn’t it? Before I decided to come to Shine this summer, I did a ton of research on the death penalty and all that. And aside from the Texas Department of Criminal Justice having a fantastic Web site, they also cater to the somewhat morbid,” Hudson says.

“How so?” I ask, leaning forward.

“They have a place where you can see who’s next in line, you know? And they also have this list of who has already been executed and what their last words were. And inevitably the last words are gorgeous . . . downright poetic. I mean, if you told me some great thinker or writer said them, I’d believe you. But then you click over and see what this guy did to get there? Fuuuuck,” Hudson says, trailing off and taking a swig of his beer. I am quiet. I know exactly what he’s talking about, because I’ve been checking a very similar Web site to follow Yvonne Chapman.

Hudson continues, “And for a while I thought, just don’t click over, you know? Just read these beautiful words and think of it like some great injustice was done and this is some misunderstood hero, but it’s not. It’s some dipshit who held up a gas station and killed the poor schlub who had the misfortune of being behind the counter.”

“That’s exactly it,” I say.

“I know,” Hudson says, still contemplating.

“I read about—shit, even Ann Boleyn, right? What she was thinking and what must she have felt in those last few feet? I just . . . to know you’re walking to your death. And yes, I’m infusing my own humanity where there might be none, but even at our basest we are all still animals who don’t want to die. I don’t care how right with God you are or how long that chaplain talks to you,” I say, speaking of things I didn’t even know I’d thought about.

“The myth that people can possibly be ready to die is one of the cruelest,” Hudson says, taking another long swig of his beer.

We are quiet.

“I haven’t talked about life and death in a long time,” I say, curling my foot up beneath me on the bench. I’m closing in on myself. I’m thinking about that day. The principal and his squeaky shoes, being wrenched away from Merry Carole, complicated monsters, and a mother with the cruelest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

“I think about it all the time,” Hudson says.

“I hear you’re an expert,” I say with a beleaguered smile.

“Yeah, well.”

“What does that mean?” I’m happy we’re moving on to another subject. I’m also happy we talked about it. I feel . . . better. Lightened ever so slightly.

“It means I’m trying to be heard in a room of screaming people, I guess. My opinions and thoughts are . . . completely new and revolutionary. This whole summer is about trying to put some power behind my words,” Hudson says, gesticulating wildly.

“You’re here to keep it real then. Get a little street cred,” I say.

“Academics are hard core, yo,” Hudson says.

“That was painful,” I say.

“I know—I was midway through it and I could have totally stopped before the ‘yo,’ but I didn’t. I just went for it,” Hudson says, laughing.

“Yeah. Totally,” I say, poking fun at his Californianisms.

“Don’t even get me started on the way you people talk, or should I say the way y’all talk,” Hudson says. I drain the last of my beer. Hudson continues, “You want another round?” He scans the room for the cocktail waitress.

“No, I’ve got to get home. My sister will be waiting up for me,” I say, wanting to just crawl into my bed and dream of anything but Shine Prison.

“I’ll settle up the tab and meet you out front?” Hudson says, draining his beer.

“Sounds good,” I say, standing. Hudson stands. I keep forgetting how tall he is. How did I get here? Sitting at some snobby bar in Evans, of all places. And with him. I don’t know if I could have had that conversation with anyone else. Whatever happens with Hudson, I am grateful he was here tonight.

“What are you thinking?” Hudson asks.

“What?” I ask, caught off guard.

“What were you thinking just then?” he asks, standing in front of me now. My face colors as though I’ve been caught red-handed. Can this motherf*cker mind-read? Hudson continues, “Oh, you’re totally telling me now. It’s good, huh?” He folds his arms across his chest.

“I was just thinking that even though I have no idea how I landed at this bar of all places, I’m happy I did,” I say, deciding to tell the truth (some of it anyhow).

“Is that all?” Hudson asks, stepping closer. I look up at him.

“And that you’re taller than I thought,” I say, finally making eye contact with him.

“Am I?” he says.

“I don’t know if you’re being purposely obtuse or just being a dick,” I say, his body so close now.

“Probably a combination,” Hudson says. He slides his hand behind my waist and pulls me into him. I’m caught off guard and hear myself (horrifyingly) gasp. “Oh well, that’s kind of adorable, isn’t it?” he asks, just before quieting me with a kiss. His mouth is warm and I can feel him smirking even now. I hear the older women at the other table making comments. There might be hooting and hollering. As the humidity settles in around us, I can hear Miranda Lambert singing about the house that built her. I can’t help but smile. In front of God and everybody, Professor Hudson Bishop kissed me.

And you better believe I kissed him back.

“You sure you still have to get home?” Hudson asks, as we finally break from each other.

“I’m sure,” I say, not moving one inch.

“Then you’d better get going,” he says, pulling me in again. My heart swells as Shine Prison falls away. Hudson is fast turning into the antidote for the horror of what goes on in the Death House. I break from him again.

“Time to go,” I say, with a smile.

“Fine. Meet you out front?” he asks, swiping my bangs to the side.

I nod and walk into the bar before I get lost in him again. The music is pounding and loud, couples move and sway across the tiny dance floor. I shift and jostle through the crowd and find myself unable to think straight. What happened out there?

As I stand outside the bar among the ostracized smokers, it hits me. I’ve been as much a party to the Wake mythology as everyone else. They thought I was a whore; I became someone’s mistress. They thought I was a deadbeat; I showed up at Merry Carole’s door with nothing.

I’ve lived my life based on what “they” think. Who are they? They don’t love me. They don’t know me. And they sure as shit don’t care about what happens to me. Yet every decision involves thinking about what the judgmental and anonymous “they” would think.

What would they do if I stopped caring what they think?

“You ready?” Hudson asks, greeting me with another kiss. I can’t help but let him, finally soaking up the freedom of it all.

“Yeah,” I say, as we finally break apart. He takes my hand and we start walking back to his bed and breakfast.

“The thing about this B and B is, they have—,” Hudson says, as we approach my car.

“It’s not going to happen,” I say. It’s time to stop allowing others to cast me as the whore and/or the deadbeat. And it has to start right now. Despite wanting to go up into that bed and breakfast and do profoundly unadorable things with Hudson, I can’t. I need to start believing I’m worthy of being courted.

“Ever?” Ever. My brain sputters over Everett’s pet name. I quickly collect myself.

“We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“I don’t know if you’re being purposely obtuse or just being a dick,” Hudson says, kissing me again.

“Probably a combination,” I say, unlocking my car door and climbing inside. He slams my door shut. I reach over my shoulder for my seat belt as I start the car.

“New York plates, huh?” he says as I roll down my window.

“Yep,” I say.

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” he says, with a raised eyebrow. Hudson stands back from the car and steps out on the empty street. I give him a wave and pull out into the night.

I drive the few minutes home and find myself at that red blinking light at the edge of North Star without really knowing how I got there. The last meal. Hudson. Epiphanies about playing my part and being faithful to a man who was never faithful to me. I’m officially a zombie at this point. I pull down Merry Carole’s driveway, pull my now empty canvas bags out of the hatch, lock my car, and make my way down the manicured pathway, past Cal’s glorious sign and into the darkened house.

I walk through the dark and empty house to my bedroom. I push open my bedroom door and flick on the light. I put the piece of paper with my next last meal written on it on top of my dresser and decide to keep it folded. Closed. I pull my pajamas out of the dresser and begin to undress. The air-conditioning clicks on and the clunk of the fan startles me. I take a deep breath and continue undressing. Focus on the food. Think about the next meal and envision the day, cooking perfection. Tamales. Cabrito. Churros. I walk over to my dresser, unfold the little piece of paper, and start scrawling ideas I have about the meal. I’ll serve the churro with a Mexican hot chocolate. I can do the Mexican rice that I learned while I was in San Diego. I didn’t learn the recipe from one of the other chefs, mind you, but from this amazing man they only let wash the dishes. I traded him my ranch beans recipe for it. It was absolutely worth it. This is the good. Herein lies the balance.

I enjoyed my day more than I should have. What kind of person enjoys making last meals for triple murderers? That’s just it, though, isn’t it? Me. I don’t know why or how, but I did. I didn’t even know I still knew those recipes. It’s not as if they’re written down anywhere. Mom learned them from her mother and on up the Wake family tree. No one wrote anything down. It just wasn’t done. I pull on my tank top and scrounge through my luggage, pulling a little notebook from its depths. I grab the pen from my dresser and flip the notebook open. And I write. From beginning to end, I walk through my first last meal—what I cooked, the recipes, the processes, what worked and what didn’t. My hand is hurting as I finish, the house still so quiet. As I flip the pages, rereading my work, I feel a surge of emotion. I’m proud of myself. My attention to detail and the respect I have for the food of Texas catches me off guard. I didn’t even consider changing these recipes or evolving them. It never occurred to me to reimagine the fried chicken or think of a new way to prepare chess pie. No. Those recipes are bigger than me. As I relive my last meeting with Brad in New York, I’m proud that I’ve at least learned one lesson since I’ve been back in North Star: it’s one thing to have an ego about one’s cooking, but it’s a whole other to have an ego about oneself as a chef. Reclaiming those magnificent black-and-white moments of our past can only work if I am true to the recipes. True to their history by making them just as Texans have been doing for hundreds of years. Just as my family has been making them for hundreds of years.

I think about opening up my own little place. Cooking this kind of food. I never wanted my own place before. My dream was to be the executive chef in someone else’s kitchen. What does that say about me? But now? With these recipes, my family recipes, pinballing around in my head, I can’t shut off the idea of my own place. My own kitchen. Maybe even ask the Dent boys to work there (when they get out prison, that is). I could find a place in Austin, maybe do one of those food trucks, maybe look a bit into something in California. I close the notebook and tuck it back into my luggage. The quiet of Merry Carole’s house settles around me. I smile. There must be a part of me that takes pride in being a Texan after all. The part that loves a good brisket.

I think about the black hole that our plot of land has become. Could I open up my own place there? Could I exorcise the demons and start fresh?

I crawl into bed, finally realizing how exhausted I am.

And I lay there.

I close my eyes. They open. Wide open. My eyes adjust and I can begin to make out the shadows of the dark room. I toss and turn but can’t get comfortable. I lick my lips and taste bourbon and Hudson. How different he was from Everett. Playful. Fun. Light. I turn onto my side, punching at my pillow. I close my eyes again. Triple murderer. Fried chicken. What about that ranch dressing? Should I always include it? Could I have done better? I flip onto my back and stare at the ceiling. A plot of land and a notebook filled with recipes. My own kitchen. It’s no use. I flip off my bedding and walk out into the hall. I look down toward Merry Carole’s room. Her door is cracked just a bit. I take this as a sign that she wants me to come in. I creak down the hallway, past Cal’s room, and push Merry Carole’s bedroom door open.

“You awake?” I ask, my voice just above a whisper. I hear Merry Carole shift in her bed.

“I am now,” Merry Carole says.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Come on then,” Merry Carole says, flipping the blankets back and making a space for me. I walk over and crawl into Merry Carole’s bed. Just like when we were kids. I fidget and situate. She continues with a sigh, “Working at that prison has made you jumpy.”

“Probably,” I say, now on my side facing her in the dim light of her bedroom.

“So?” Merry Carole asks.

“It was phenomenally weird,” I say, still unable to put today’s experience into words.

“Phenomenally weird,” Merry Carole repeats.

“I love working in that kitchen. It’s all kinds of wrong, but I love it. I get to make this perfect meal, and I’ve just never felt so at home,” I say.

“I can understand that.”

“But . . .”

“But . . . ,” Merry Carole repeats.

“And that’s the part I’m having trouble digesting. The ‘but.’ ”

“Yeah,” Merry Carole says, her sentence trailing off.

“I tried not knowing, but that just made it worse.”

“That feels like a whole new level of denial to me.”

“It absolutely was.”

“So how do you continue to do this then?” Merry Carole sits up and rests her head on her hand.

“I guess I know what I have to know,” I say, my words as confused as my thoughts.

“And what does that mean?”

“I have no idea,” I say. I flip onto my back, trying to get my breath. I wish I could say that my change in position has warranted some clarity. It hasn’t.

“Maybe it’s just a case-by-case deal then? You take on one meal at a time and see how you feel after each one. When the bad outweighs the good, you stop,” Merry Carole says, pulling the blankets up and smoothing them over me.

“That’s brilliant,” I say.

“You don’t have to know everything now,” she says.

We are quiet. I’m not sure whether she’s dozed off or is just thinking. I finally am able to take a deep breath and close my eyes.

“I told Reed we needed a break,” Merry Carole says, breaking the silence.

“Oh Merry Carole.”

“I know. I just can’t. The town is too small, and if it ever got back to Cal—”

“Cal would be lucky to have Reed in his life,” I interrupt.

“It’s been just us, you know? I can’t risk it. I would never want him to feel like we did—always second to whoever Momma was seeing at the time.”

“Honey, it’s just not the same thing. It really isn’t.”

“I know that almost ninety-eight percent of the time, but it’s that two percent that keeps getting me.” Merry Carole’s voice hitches.

“Yeah, but you’re never going to be one hundred percent on anything.”

“But you see, you’re wrong. I can be one hundred percent about Cal not being upset if I just shut things down with Reed. See? Problem solved. One hundred percent.”

“So you don’t get to be happy, then. You don’t get someone in your life?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Do you think there will ever be a time when you think, without asking his opinion of course, that Cal would accept the man you finally deemed worthy of being part of your family?”

“That feels like a leading question.”

“Well. Do you think Cal wouldn’t consider the fact that you’ve never brought any man around, ever. Until now? And it’s basically his father figure? The man he respects more than his actual father?”

“I know this seems silly to you.”

“It does not seem silly at all. I’m walking around with the same shit you are, trust me.”

“I know you are.”

“Cal’s not holding out any hope that you and Wes are going to get back together, is he?”

“No. No way.”

“Okay, good.”

“I’m just happy they have some kind of relationship now. He goes over there for dinner once a week. And I have to give it to Whitney—she’s been nothing but nice to Cal. And their two kids—”

“Their three kids.”

“Well, yeah, that . . . but the two official kids love Cal.”

“And you’re positive he doesn’t already know about Reed?”

“I’m not positive of anything.”

We settle into Merry Carole’s bed, pulling on the covers like we always did. I knead and push the pillow into the proper position as Merry Carole tugs on the sheet that I’ve pulled too far to my side.

“So, Professor California. Tell me his real name again?” Merry Carole asks.

“Hudson,” I say.

“When am I going to meet him?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“He can come with you to the team barbecue,” Merry Carole says, flipping onto her side and finally settling in for the night.

“I don’t even know if I’m coming to the team barbecue,” I say.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Merry Carole pulls the blankets up over her shoulders.

“Right,” I say, trying not to smile.

“You’re also coming to church with me on Sunday,” Merry Carole says.

“What? What are you talking about?” I ask.

“And I get to pick out what you wear,” Merry Carole says, kissing me on the top of my head and settling back onto her pillow. She continues, “It’s late. Get some sleep.”

“I missed you,” I say, my voice tiny in the darkened room.

“I missed you, too,” Merry Carole says. I sigh. She continues, “But you’re still coming with me to church.”

“Fiiiine,” I say, unable to hide my smile.

As I tuck myself in tight, I think about the idea of happiness. Lying here with Merry Carole is as close as I’ve gotten in recent years. It’s utterly blissful. I haven’t felt this safe in a long time. What if I stayed in North Star? I could have this all I want. Merry Carole and Cal. Dee and her brood. I think about Hudson and am grateful for tonight. There’s something to be said for not knowing anything about a person. It’s a refreshing change from everyone knowing everybody’s business. I pull the blanket up and begin to drift off to sleep. A single thought dances around the edges of my brain, threatening my dreamy imaginings of staying in North Star.

Everett.

I close my eyes ever tighter and push those brown-and-yellow- pinwheel green eyes as far from my brain as I can. I sigh and finally drift off to sleep.